


The Long Road Back

by damozel



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bodyswap, Community: femslashex, F/F, Femslash, First Kiss, Gift Fic, Master & Servant, Time Travel, Treat, Victorian, fast and loose with canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damozel/pseuds/damozel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The evening brings an unexpected visitor to the Wells household, with a warning from the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Road Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MykaWells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MykaWells/gifts).



‘For Goodness sake Charles, not like that!’

Helena snatched the pen from her brother and dropped it clumsily into the ink well. Oily black droplets splattered across the surface of the already messy manuscript, and across the soft flesh of her white hands. Frustrated, she wiped the mess off on her skirt, and took up the pen again. Pressing against the paper far too hard she began to strike through more and more words, making further adjustments as she went. The page now looked more like a spider’s web than a great work of science fiction. She swore out loud as the nib snapped, leaving an impressive blot in its wake. ‘Stupid bloody thing.’

‘Honestly, sister dearest. How can you possibly expect the printer to make head or tail of this chaos?’ Charles rummaged in the bureau for some blotting paper.

‘And how can you expect my readers to make sense of your drivel?’ she demanded. She rolled up her inky sleeves and picked up the sheet, reading sarcastically: ' _He was furious with passion. Simply furious. “You will never comprehend my genius. Never I say. But I would not part with my discoveries for all the Queen’s horses. One day the truth of my calculations shall be proved, and all of the nations will bow down to my name_." '

The beleaguered man rolled his eyes impatiently.

‘Do you _honestly_ think he would express himself like that, Charley dear? The dialogue is clumsy and the setting’s all wrong. I’ve explained this character to you a hundred times.’

‘Yes, and I’ve listened to you _one thousand times_ , Helena. Here. Why don’t you do it yourself?’ Charles’ temper could match his sister’s when he was provoked. 

‘I invent the characters. The plots. The science. All I ask in return for the fame and fortune my talents bring to your door is a little bit of artistic labour here and there. Some creative flair for goodness’ sake. Is that really too much to ask?’

‘It’s not so easy as you suppose to get the ravings of a lunatic down on the page,’ Charles grumbled, extracting a cigar from his jacket pocket. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d almost suppose you were engaged in building a time machine yourself. Nobody else in the world could follow your elaborate plot devices and pseudo-science, sis dearest.’ He shoved the wet page over to her, and stomped bad naturedly out of the room. 

‘I suppose that’s why I sold ten thousand last year,’ Helena called after him into the void. ‘If you want the publishers to stop forwarding you the cheques you only have to say the word!’ She knew in her heart of hearts that Charles was not so very cross. He only wanted to go outside and have a good hard gasp of tobacco. 

‘Connie, dear, could you fetch me a wet cloth. And perhaps a little tea?’

The housemaid had been lingering in the shadows. The benefit of her neat black gown was the ability to hide in plain sight as soon as the evening began to draw in. She had been watching, wide-eyed, all that took place. Now she tucked a few stray tendrils of hair beneath her white frill cap, and came forwards bearing a candle. 

‘Certainly ma’am. And perhaps miss would like a little something to eat? It’s gone 8 o’clock and cook says you haven't taken anything since breakfast. That you've been wrapped up in your work all day, miss.' 

There was something odd about her words. Something slightly _off_ that the author couldn't quite place her finger on.

‘Connie, whatever’s wrong with your voice?’

‘Nothing ma’am. I’ll be right back with that tea. Oh, and the cloth miss!’ 

Helena drank in the slender frame of her servant. Was it wrong that she noticed for the first time how pretty the girl was? _Only eighteen years old, and with us five years already. What will her life be? Fetching and carrying for the irritable, eccentric rich all her days. Then the chance to marry some ham-fisted butcher’s boy. I suppose she left school at thirteen._

H.G. was frustrated with her lot in life at times, the blasted frustrations of being a woman. Then the thought of a life without learning and literature was enough to make her heart sink. 

After some minutes the housemaid reappeared, ghost-like from the shadows.

‘Connie, what on earth’s the matter with you? You look an awful fright.’ 

The servant edged further in from out of the darkness. Her movements were somehow bolder, more striking than in times past. As if her petite body couldn’t quite accommodate her personality, as if her legs longed to stretch out further than her tiny frame would ever allow. 

‘Connie, so that's who I'm supposed to be? You know that's not my name.’ The voice had a disconcerting, fuzzy edge to it. A little like the American society ladies Helena's mother used to look down her nose at.

‘Now, look here. You know I’m awfully fond of you. And I like a joke as much as the next person. But you’re taking this too far.’ 

H.G. attempted a benevolent smile, not wishing to admit that her own servant was frightening her. 

With her arms stretched out, Connie resembled a Haitian Zombie. She placed the heavy tea tray down, turning her glazed brown eyes upwards to meet her mistress’s incredulous gaze. 

‘You’re gonna find this hard to swallow but my name’s not Connie. It’s Myka. Myka Bering.’ 

‘Connie – If you're going to play pretend like this you might as well make up a believable name for yourself. Honestly, who in the world would name their child _Myka_?’ 

‘Please, H.G. I don’t have much time. _Listen_ to me. I’ve got something important to tell you.’ 

H.G. allowed herself to be chastised for the first time in her life. ‘Here, let me get you a little water.’ 

‘I know that you've been making plans. That your stories aren't just stories. I'm here to tell you that it works. Your Time Machine works. Not in the way you imagined: minds travel, not bodies. But it works, it really works! I’m here from your future – a long, long way in your future – borrowing Connie’s body for a while.’ 

Helena’s hand trembled against her will. She almost allowed herself to believe. Just for a second. 

'I care about you. More than you can know right now. I've broken all the rules to get here, and God knows if I'll ever make it back to the Warehouse alive. But I had to come back here. I had to come back here to warn you.’ 

The Warehouse? The textured accent, and the urgent, odd words sounded so very wrong on the lips of the sheltered housemaid. 

‘Bad things are going to happen to you one day, H.G. And I need you to keep your head. No matter what I need you to promise that you’ll keep on working, keep on inventing. It’s the only way I have back to you. Don’t you see? It’s the only way the two of us can survive.’ 

Helena didn’t see. The situation was absurd. She should have called for the mad house doctors. Instead she took “Connie’s” trembling hands in her own. 

‘It works? My machine _works_?’ 

‘H.G., there’s not much time. Tell me you’ll be careful. I need you to promise.’ 

‘There’s all the time in the world,’ Helena retorted with a slightly manic edge to her laugh, a wicked glint in her eyes. All of time and space – I always knew it was there for the taking, if only I could get the calculation right.’ 

‘ _Promise me_.’ Myka was panicked, trembling, insistent. 

‘Is that all? You came all this way and that’s all you want from me? All right then. I promise to be careful.’ The Englishwoman was still clasping her housemaid’s hands. 

‘I guess there was one more thing after all.’ The girl tipped her head upwards, grasping Helena with more strength than the eighteen-year-old servant could ever have mustered. She briefly skirted H.G.’s lips with her own, before pulling in for a deeper, more intense kiss. She savoured each second of contact with that soft, ivory flesh, knowing it would be over all too soon. Her hand traced the arc of Helena's impossibly graceful neck, and the sharp, high curve of her cheekbones. Finally she ran her fingers through the Englishwoman's lush, dark mane of her hair, affectionately twisting a stray lock around her finger. 

‘It’ll be a long time until we can do that again,’ murmured Myka, pulling away eventually. ‘We need to make it last.’ 

For the first time in her life, Helena George Wells was rendered speechless. Before she could catch her breath, Connie’s fragile body began to stutter and shake. The girl had started to fall before she knew what was happening. 

‘Myka?’ Helena called into the darkness of the study, cupping the young girl’s head so as to protect her from the hard wood floor. Already Helena could see the life of her frightened maid pouring back into her body. 

'Are you all right?' she asked, instinctively, maternally, scooping up the weakened creature.

The girl's words came out jumbled and confused. 'Miss. Oh miss. It were the strangest thing I ever felt.'

'For me too,' replied Helena with a wry grin. 

Myka Bering was gone, leaving only a brief kiss in the darkness. A flicker that might have never been. Tomorrow Charles would try to convince Helena that it was nothing more than one of her fancies, the result of over indulgence and over work. A love-note to last for one hundred years. 


End file.
